


romance isn't (un)dead

by buckgaybarnes



Series: romance isn't undead [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: ......or is it?, M/M, Mechanic Newt Geiszler, Meet-Cute, One Night Stands, Small Towns, Vampire Hermann Gottlieb, currently standalone oneshot, with full intentions of continuing in a series/another chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 15:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18252485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: The town up ahead, the town Newt’s shop rests just outside, fits his bill perfectly. He’s just not sure how to put this in terms that will not send Newt running for the hills. “I travel a lot,” Hermann continues, slowly. “I suppose you could say I’m on indefinite sabbatical.”“Ominous,” Newt says, and then—in reaction to whatever alarmed expression must’ve risen on Hermann’s face—laughs. “I’m kidding.”(OR: Hermann has car troubles. Newt is happy to help.)





	romance isn't (un)dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeleton_twins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/gifts).



> as per a VERY niche but VERY fun request from the lovely skeleton_twins (erica), who wanted some vampire hermann/mechanic newt banging! i had fun writing this and i liked it and the potential so much i think i might add another chapter or sequel lmaoo
> 
> the fact that "vampire hermann gottlieb" is already a common, filterable tag: you are all SO horny

The hardest part of immortality, the part that  _really_ gets on Hermann’s nerves, is remembering to keep all his paperwork in order. Driving licenses, IDs, employment history—even his PhD. Usually, he can get by with a little bit of hand-waving mental  _suggestion_ —no, his ID wasn’t issued in the 1950s, that would make him well-over eighty, does Hermann look eighty?—but it takes quite a lot out of him. Annoying, too.

The second hardest factor: the caveats entailed by Hermann’s particular brand of immortality, namely,  _food_. Hermann’s always had a bit of a weak stomach—always easily made squeamish—and usually when he needs to reinvigorate himself he does so in a way that’s the least painful for every party involved. No bodies drained entirely of blood and left on the sidewalk to be found in the morning by the unsuspecting passersby, as if it's some lurid penny-dreadful. No unwilling participants. Usually, once a month or so, Hermann will meet a nice man, invite him up for dinner and wine and maybe a little more, and once they’ve made it into the bedroom Hermann’ll drink from him just the  _smallest_ bit. Nothing he’ll miss. Or even notice. Some even like the way the biting feels. All of Hermann’s needs taken care of in one, cleanly and efficiently.

There is the loneliness of it all to worry about, of course, no family to speak of, no companion, any and all friends he's ever had dead and gone, but that doesn’t remotely matter right now. What matters right  _now_  is that, on the loneliest stretch of road possible, in the middle of the night, Hermann’s damned car has broken down and his utter refusal to invest in the ridiculous modern contraption of a mobile telephone means he’s completely without means of finding himself a way out of this situation.

Bugger it all. Hermann smacks his steering wheel twice, for good measure, and lets out a long hiss of frustration. He considers walking to find the nearest pay phone—if those even still exist in 2019—or perhaps a roadhouse or gas station that’ll lend him their telephone, but has, frankly, no clue which direction to even start in, or if he'd make it without his leg stiffening up on him. He’s in the middle of  _nowhere_.

Best wait, then. Someone’s bound to drive along eventually. If they’re generous, he’ll hitch a ride or borrow a telephone. If they’re not—well. Hermann will have no trouble dealing with them.

At a loss for anything else to do, Hermann cracks open one of the thick physics journals from the cardboard boxes stuffed into his backseat and begins reading, thankful, not for the first time, that his condition allows for sharp vision in circumstances with less-than-ideal lighting.

An hour passes. Perhaps two. (Hermann experiences time much faster these days.) Finally, there’s a speck of light further down the highway, getting closer by the second. Headlights. Hermann snaps the journal shut and tosses it aside.

A battered-looking red convertible (the sort that Hermann remembers being popular decades ago) pulls up alongside Hermann’s own car, the top pulled up. The driver’s side window rolls down slowly; a scruffy-looking brunet man sticks his head out. Hermann rolls down his own window with the hand crank.

“Hi,” the man says. He’s got glasses that take up half his face. Young, likely around Hermann’s age (at least, physically). Fairly unassuming. Hermann does not expect he’ll have to be on the defense tonight. “Do you need help?”

“My car’s broken down,” Hermann calls back. “I don’t suppose you have a telephone I could borrow to call a tow truck?”

To his surprise, the man grins. Then, to Hermann’s  _consternation,_  he hops out of his convertible and starts examining Hermann’s car. “Man, this thing’s  _old_ ,” he says, and squats down low to run his hand over one tire. “How’s it still running?”

“I take good care of it,” Hermann says, tersely. He very rarely drives it. “Do you have a telephone?”

“I do,” the man says. He straightens up to his feet, and dusts some of the road dirt off his cuffed jeans. He's also short, Hermann notes. “ _But_ you could also just hitch a ride with me, since I own the only car repair shop anywhere near here.” His grin’s gone cheeky.

Hermann considers his earlier assessment. Young. Dorky. Unassuming. Short. Soft around the middle (stomach spilling just-slightly over his comically tight jeans), but with strong-looking tattooed forearms that lead up to equally strong-looking biceps. Hermann could easily overpower him, nevertheless, should he attempt anything unseemly, though he  _highly doubts_ that’ll be the case. He seems...good-natured. “How far is your shop from here?” Hermann says, snagging his cane and pushing his car door open.

The man hops aside so as not to be in Hermann’s way. “Thirty minutes drive, I guess?” he says, and hums, contemplatively, while squinting at the dark road ahead. “It’s just outside town. I could come back with my tow truck. Or you could come with me to get it. Or I could take you there, drop you off, and—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hermann cuts in. He’s pleased, at least, to find that he’s not far off from town. He’d anticipated needing to drive through the night. “Thank you. That will be sufficient.”

The man watches Hermann curiously as Hermann slips out the car and pushes himself to his feet. “I’m Newt, by the way,” he says. “Newt Geiszler.”

“Dr. Hermann Gottlieb,” Hermann says.

“Alright then, doc,” Newt says, and gestures to the passenger’s side of his convertible. “Make yourself comfortable.”

 

Newt chatters incessantly on the drive to his automobile shop, about anything and everything that seems to flit into his mind. Hermann learns more about Newt than he’s learned about any other human this century combined in the first ten minutes alone. Newt’s a doctor as well, six times over, specialties in everything from marine biology (his favorite) to engineering (the most useful, for his current job, he claims) to, curiously, 18th century English literature. (“I had a free summer.”) He’s German by birth, like Hermann, and American by upbringing and education, unlike Hermann. He’s a vegetarian, but he eats fish, which means he’s not really a vegetarian but a pescatarian, but he still calls himself a vegetarian because it’s easier. He played electric guitar in a band during the early half of his twenties. He recently quit his comfortable job as a university professor to—in his own words— _fuck off_ to the middle of nowhere, take over his retiring father’s garage, and work on his newest project—a book—in his free time.

“What sort of book?” Hermann says, because it seems like the thing to ask. Casual conversation between two strangers. Hermann’s always been fond of reading, and he's written a handful of books himself. He expects it’ll be a compilation of Newt’s research, or perhaps a continuation of his thesis.

“It’s sci-fi,” Newt says happily. “With aliens and all that cool shit. But it’s also a  _romance_. These two guys—they’re penpals, actually—”

Hermann feigns a coughing fit so he will not have to sit through the entire summary. “Yes,” he says, “yes, that sounds excellent, Geiszler.”

Newt flashes him a look. “You can just call me Newt, you know,” he says. He smiles.

The smile—bright, sweet, and earnest—affects Hermann in a way he’d not anticipated. Something strange and warm and  _new_ tightens itself around his heart. “Newt,” he says.

(Newt is young, dorky, unassuming, short, soft around the middle, has strong forearms that end in strong hands that grip the steering wheel firmly. Newt is also attractive in a way that makes Hermann feel light-headed, something completely and utterly foreign to him.)

“So what’s your deal?” Newt says. “What are you doing all alone out here? And with the whole—” He lifts one hand from the wheel and waves it at Hermann.

“The whole what?” Hermann says, a touch more defensively than he intended.

“Accent,” Newt says, “and the nerdy professor getup. No judgement. I dig it.”

Hermann sniffs. “Well,” he says. “I  _do_ happen to be a professor.”

He was, at least. He will be again. Hermann never sees it fit to stay at one university for more than a decade or two. People will talk, otherwise, at just how  _well_ he’s aging, or why he doesn’t seem to have any friends or family. They have before. Hermann’s not particularly keen to be found out. He’s also not particularly keen on America, far preferring England (where he did his schooling, back  _before_ , and even after) and his even older homeland of Germany, but there’s something so cliche in stalking the halls of some ancient European manor, and Hermann refuses to be a cliche. America it’s been, since the first Great War, and America it will be until he fancies another change.

The cause for this trip is along those lines. Laying low in some obscure, remote town for a few years (last time, the quiet of the Pacific Northwest, this time, the Southwestern desert), perhaps taking up a job teaching high school physics or shelving books in a public library, before ultimately moving on once more. The town up ahead, the town Newt’s shop rests just outside, fits his bill perfectly. He’s just not sure how to put this in terms that will not send Newt running for the hills. “I travel a lot,” Hermann continues, slowly. “I suppose you could say I’m on indefinite sabbatical.”

“Ominous,” Newt says, and then—in reaction to whatever alarmed expression must’ve risen on Hermann’s face—laughs. “I’m  _kidding_.”

“Oh,” Hermann says.

“‘S cool that you travel a lot,” Newt says. “I’ve always wanted to. Oh—here we are.”

His convertible slows to a halt outside an equally run-down looking car shop ( _Geiszler Brothers’ Auto Repairs_ in light-up neon lettering on the roof, straight-forward, to the point, and uninspired), completely deserted and completely isolated, save for what looked like a derelict and disused diner across the road. The shop’s main lights are shut off, but Hermann can make out two lone gas pumps, a tire pump, and the shuttered door to the garage in the eerie pink glow of the neon.

“My apartment’s up top,” Newt explains, as he pulls the convertible around the back and into a small parking spot. “It’s  _really_ quiet out here. I get a lot of work done.” He looks wistful for a moment. “Kinda miss that diner, though. They had great milkshakes.”

“Aren’t you frightened living out here all by yourself?” Hermann says, genuinely curious.

“Nah,” Newt says. He grins. “I stopped believing in ghosts ages ago.”

Hermann lets out a short, humorless laugh.

Newt switches off the ignition. “Right,” he says. He twirls his key ring around his index finger. “So, two options. One, you get comfortable on my couch and I go back out, tow your car in, and start work on it now. Two,” and here, Hermann notes, he looks strangely bashful, “you can just crash on my couch for the night and I’ll deal with your car tomorrow? You gotta be tired, dude, it’s, like, midnight.”

Hermann blinks in shock. “Is it?” Hermann sleeps, when the urge strikes him, but it’s not necessary for him to function as it is for the average human. He can go quite some time without it.

“Get some sleep,” Newt says. “I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow.”

Refusing Newt’s offer—a kind offer, a very human offer—would certainly look suspicious. Hermann holds back a sigh.  _Humans_. “Er. Thank you,” he says. “That would be—nice.” It’s not as if anyone will attempt to steal his car, anyway; it’s horrendously out of style, he has the keys in his possession, and the most valuable item in there (aside from papers and his dusty collection of scientific texts) is his battered old suitcase of clothing stowed in the trunk.

Newt shows him to the little pull-out couch in his cramped living room, then disappears in what Hermann presumes to be his bedroom for a minute or so. He emerges with a stack of sheets, pillows, and blankets and starts making up a bed on the bare mattress for Hermann. “It’s a little lumpy,” he says, “but it’s comfortable. I think. There used to be two bedrooms, but I turned one into an office, so...”

“To write your book,” Hermann says.

Newt grins at him. “Exactly.”

A question weighs heavy on Hermann’s mind,  _has_ weighed heavy since Newt offered him a ride in the first place, but he can’t bring himself to ask it. It makes sense for Hermann to fear nothing from a man like Newt Geiszler, but Newt—alone, defenseless, isolated in the middle of nowhere—certainly can’t go around loaning out his couch to whatever stranger he happens across on the side of the road. Certainly not one as suspicious as Hermann, with his vague past, his too-pale skin, his clothing that’s certainly a century out of date. (Newt, he learned on the ride over, is a horror fan. He should know the tropes.) “Newt,” he begins.

Newt smooths out the blanket he’s just laid down. He’s strangely hesitant to look right at Hermann. “Yeah?” he says.

Hermann experiences attraction, of course, and Hermann experiences  _lust_ , but it’s always finely interwoven with an aching need to quench his thirst to the point of being indistinguishable. Hermann has sex mostly out of necessity. But Newt...Newt’s rosy-cheeked and soft-bodied and pink-lipped and youthful, with blood that sings strong in his veins—the sort that Hermann would take to bed without a moment’s hesitation—but Hermann doesn’t know quite what to do with the emotions Newt’s smiles, so freely given, his tousled hair, his half-bent and crooked glasses stir deep within him.

It unsettles him.

He knows, at least, for a fact, that he would like very much to have sex with Newt.

He reaches out and catches Newt’s wrist, and Newt jolts like he’s been shocked; Hermann’d forgotten, momentarily, how frigid he runs these days. It’s never been of consequence before. “Newt,” he repeats, in a murmur. He rubs his thumb against Newt’s soft skin, feeling his pulse beat strong and steady. He’s suddenly possessed by the urge to press his lips to it, to drag his teeth across delicate, raised veins, but resists. He doesn’t want to frighten Newt off.

Newt’s tongue flicks out twice over his bottom (pink, soft-looking) lip. “Do you,” Newt stammers, “do you, uh, need something?” His eyes are fixed on Hermann’s fingers.

“In a sense,” Hermann says.

 

 

“I don’t really do this sort of stuff,” Newt says, breathy, and then giggles when Hermann’s lips brush his throat. “Oh! Wow.”

“You’d’ve fooled me,” Hermann murmurs. His lips travel lower. If the pulse in Newt’s wrist was strong before, here, over his jugular, it’s only stronger, speeding up as Newt’s arousal heightens. He  _does_ allow himself to drag his tongue over this spot, and fights the urge to moan. Newt shivers delightedly and giggles again.

“I mean, I’ve had  _sex_ , obviously,” Newt insists. “Just not—”

“Not with strange hitchhikers?” Hermann says.

“Not usually,” Newt says. He tosses Hermann another easy, carefree grin.

“I’m honored to be the exception,” Hermann says. He untangles himself from Newt—Newt, sprawled out on the little pull-out mattress, glasses dangling half-off his face, t-shirt rucked up, flushing a gorgeous, deep pink, the portrait of hedonistic debauchery—and sits up. He’s already removed his blazer, and now, he begins on the buttons of his neatly-pressed Oxford. “Would you like to fuck me?” he says, casually. “Or shall I be fucking you?”

Perhaps too casually: Newt squeaks. (Americans. So inhibited.) “I thought we’d just,” Newt stutters, “just, uh, fool around a little. I didn’t—wow.” Another giggle, this one uncertain.

“I’m sorry if I was forward,” Hermann says, not at all apologetic. “The former, then?” Hermann has no real preference when it comes to being the one giving or taking, and while he imagines Newt would make all sorts of interesting noises should he be the one on his back, Hermann has not stopped fantasizing about those strong hands on his body since his lips touched Newt’s. He imagines Newt will make interesting noises regardless.

“Okay,” Newt says. “Wow! Okay. Let me—” He scrambles to his feet. “I have stuff. In my bedroom. Do you wanna—do you wanna do it there? It’s more comfortable.”

Oxford now half-undone, Hermann holds out his hand; after a moment, Newt startles, says  _oh!_ under his breath, and pulls him to his feet. After another moment, he hands Hermann his cane. “Lead the way, then, Newt,” Hermann says, and flutters his lashes in a way that's rather uncharacteristically coy.

 

Hermann finishes unbuttoning his shirt and begins to work on unlacing his shoes as Newt digs around in the top drawer of his cluttered dresser. Newt’s room is what Hermann expected. There’s an overstuffed bookcase, lined with everything from battered science fiction novels to heavily-tagged and brick-thick biology texts. Some even with Newt’s name ( _Dr. Newton Geiszler, PhD_ ) on the spine. There are some monster movie posters, faded and curling at the edges, tacked to the equally faded and curling floral wallpaper. A few shirts and socks on the floor. A stuffed dinosaur on the bed that Newt hastily shoved out of sight when he led Hermann inside.

“Ha!” Newt exclaims. He holds up an unopened box of condoms and a nearly-full bottle of lubricant triumphantly. Then he falters. “Do you want me to—I mean, should I—” He wiggles his fingers.

Hermann snorts. “I can do it myself, if you’d rather,” he says. He opens his palm. “Give it here.”

Blushing furiously, Newt tosses him the lubricant.

Doing anything repeatedly over any extended period of time will make you an expert at it. Hermann's happened to have longer than most. He removes his trousers and briefs and, after making himself comfortable on his back, works himself open quickly and efficiently.

“You have nice fingers,” Newt says, in that little squeak once more. He stands at the end of the bed, eyes wide behind his thick glasses, and stares, intently, at where Hermann is touching himself. His tight jeans are badly tented.

Hermann can nearly hear how fast Newt's heart races. He gives a little laugh. “Come here, won’t you, love?” he says, offering his other hand out lazily. He spreads his legs, wider, so Newt may have a better view.

“Uh-huh,” Newt says. He rips his t-shirt off over his head (revealing a chest of color and lining as intricate as that on his arms, and a small trail of curly dark hair leading to his bellybutton) and kicks off his jeans before falling to his knees in the vee of Hermann’s legs. His boxers—the tiny front of which gape open enough to allow Hermann a peek of the red, flushed head of his prick—are bright yellow and dotted with tiny green Godzillas.

Hermann is helplessly endeared.

Newt’s eyes rove eagerly, hungrily, over his body, and Hermann (quite enjoying being the object of such raw desire) draws one of Newt’s strong hands closer. “You’re welcome to touch me,” he murmurs.

Newt does, just as eagerly, fingers trembling badly with nerves: he runs his fingers over Hermann’s pectorals, down his skinny chest, out to the sharp jut of his hips. He’s gentle over the scar that runs jagged from Hermann’s left thigh down to his knee. (Old medicine was nothing like it is this days.) “You’re so  _cold_ ,” Newt marvels quietly. He hesitates at Hermann’s inner thigh, slicked with lubricant. “Dr. Gottlieb,” he says, then corrects, “Hermann, can I—?”

“Of course,” Hermann says. He pulls his fingers from himself and coaxes Newt forward with an encouraging smile.

Newt’s fingers are thicker than Hermann’s, though not as long, and whereas Hermann can brush and crook deep inside himself, Newt can stretch him in a way that’s magnificent. Two fingers in, Hermann’s gasping and clutching at the sheets; three, he’s writhing in place. (Above him, Newt’s heart pounds: his blood sings strong in his veins. Hermann swallows back a sudden flash of hunger.)

“Please,” he says, “please, Newt, will you—”

“Yeah,” Newt says, and draws his fingers from Hermann shakily, “okay, yeah.”

He rips the first condom. Over-eager. The second, he rolls on himself without problem, then covers that in more lube. (Too much, perhaps. Hermann does not suspect Newt was lying about having had sex before—his fingers were far too clever for that, his kisses too self-assured—but Hermann imagines, perhaps, that he is not being entirely transparent about the frequency. Or  _in_ frequency, rather.) Newt’s prick is pleasing to look at—thick like his fingers, a dusty color, wet with precome—and Hermann imagines it’ll feel even better inside of him. “Your leg,” Newt says, gaze falling on the long scar, “will it hurt if—?”

“You needn’t be  _overly_ gentle,” Hermann assures him. “Here—” He situates his left leg at such an angle on one of Newt’s firm pillows that, should Newt become overenthusiastic, it won’t bend and cause him discomfort. So long as Newt doesn’t jostle him too much, he’ll be fine. He places his hand on Newt’s bicep, and squeezes gently. He does not miss Newt’s resulting shiver. “As you will,” he says.

Newt’s face is something to behold as he presses into Hermann: glasses sliding down his sweat-slick nose, hazel eyes screwed up in concentration, mouth going from tense line (teeth digging into his bottom lip) to slack once the base of his prick nudges snugly against Hermann’s arse. “Fuck,” he whines, shoving his glasses back up shakily, “oh,  _Hermann_ —”

Hermann winds his arm around Newt’s waist and pulls their chests flush together, then hooks his right ankle over the back of Newt’s calf. Hermann does not feel pain as easily as he once had (though he can certainly feel his stiff leg, and  _certainly_ feel pleasure), but he knows if he urges Newt too fast, too soon, Newt will become worried and stop entirely. He seems the type. Hermann waits patiently.

After a few seconds, Newt moves his hips a minuscule amount, rocking in, and out. “Is this okay?” His voice is high and thin.

“Mmhmm,” Hermann hums, eyes shut. He rubs his ankle against Newt’s leg encouragingly, relishing in all the sensations he suddenly finds himself privy to (of being stretched open around Newt, of skin-on-skin, of Newt’s heart pumping fast in his sturdy chest, of  _body heat_ ). He stretches his arm out and combs his fingers through Newt’s messy hair. “Go on, love.”

“I like it when you call me that,” Newt gasps, and Hermann presses a small kiss to his jaw and breathes out the endearment once more, just to feel Newt melt, momentarily, against him. Newt builds up a rhythm, pulling out until just the head of his prick remains in Hermann, before pushing back in, every movement accentuated with deep grunts. “This is great,” he moans, because he can't seem to shut up, even here, “oh, awesome. Wow—”

Hermann noses into the crook of Newt’s neck and shoulders, flicking his tongue over Newt’s fluttering pulse-point as he had earlier. A bite, maybe. A small one. Right at the soft, colorful skin of his shoulder. Newt would not notice, and he wouldn’t miss anything that Hermann took. (Unbidden, almost instinctively, Hermann’s fangs slide down over his bottom lip.)

But it seems wrong, somehow, to do that to Newt. Lovely, trusting, affectionate Newt, who offered him a bed he doesn’t need and a breakfast he doesn’t want. Hermann retracts his fangs.

“Good, Newt,” he murmurs encouragingly into Newt’s sweet-smelling skin instead, choosing, this time, to focus on the purely and divinely human aspect of it all.

The compliment has an effect on Newt Hermann had not anticipated: Newt’s grunts rise in pitch, the snap of his hips grows more frantic, clumsy. “Uh,” Newt says, “that’s, uh—”

Hermann’s lips twitch into a smile. (Newt likes being called sweet names. Newt likes being told he’s good.) He pets at Newt’s messy hair once more. “Excellent,” he says, and Newt emits that strange little squeak again and grinds deliberately deep into him. Lights bursts behind Hermann's eyelids; he cannot help the noise that he himself makes in return. “ _Yes_ ,” he moans, clenching strands of Newt's hair, “that’s lovely,  _you’re_ lovely—”

He squeezes tight around Newt. This effect, as the one before, is instantaneous. Newt shouts, hips stuttering and turning sloppy, pulse pounding wildly beneath Hermann’s lips, and he rides out his orgasm in Hermann until, overwhelmed, Hermann’s own overtakes him as well.

After—after Newt pulls out of Hermann, disposes of the condom, stumbles to the adjacent washroom to retrieve Hermann a wet handtowel, wipes down Hermann’s stomach and thighs—Newt collapses in a heap on his chest. “You wanna stay in here tonight?” he says. He’s resting his chin on Hermann’s sternum and tracing little lines on Hermann’s chest with his fingertip. (He hasn’t yet noticed Hermann’s lack of heartbeat. Or perhaps he’s willfully ignorant.)

Hermann settles his hand cautiously in the dip of Newt’s back. “You mean—?”

“In my bed,” Newt clarifies. “It’s big enough for both of us.”

Hermann considers. His blazer, car keys, eyeglasses, and wallet rest on the small side table beside the pull-out sofa. The lumpy pull-out sofa, with a mattress that sags at the head and that would, certainly, leave Hermann’s leg stiff as anything the next morning. It’s also far from Newt—Newt, all alone out here in the middle of nowhere, who could use, perhaps, some protection in the night from someone like Hermann.

Newt’s bed is soft, and warm, and  _Newt_ is soft and warm. The decision is not all that hard. “Alright,” Hermann says, and allows himself a small smile.

Newt returns it. “This is the weirdest hook-up I’ve ever had,” he declares, but it’s good-natured. Not serious. Hermann happens to agree. Newt sets his glasses on the nightstand, and—for lack of a better word—snuggles into Hermann’s chest. “‘Night,” he says with a little yawn.

“Mm,” Hermann says. He brushes Newt’s hair back idly. “Goodnight.”

Hermann does not require sleep. He rarely indulges in it. But Newt is warm in his arms, and his heart beats steadily, and most of all, Hermann  _likes_ him, so he thinks he may allow himself to indulge for once.

 

 

There’s a small window in Newt’s bedroom, located directly across from the bed. Last night, the curtains—gauzy, with small lizards embroidered in them, perhaps a hold-out from Newt’s childhood bedroom—had been drawn shut in front of it, but they’ve been thrust open to let the morning sunlight in at some point prior to Hermann’s lazy awakening in Newt’s bed. He’s not slept all that late: the clock on Newt’s bedside blinks 10:32. He's also alone. Newt’s likely opened his shop for the day already. A small green post-in note, shaped like a star, stuck to the empty pillow to Hermann’s right confirms it.  _(In garage. Made u breakfast! <3)_

The small heart makes Hermann’s stomach do a funny little flip. He snatches the note up.

His clothing is wrinkled to hell, which he learns when he digs it up from underneath Newt’s bed, and most of the breakfast Newt’s prepared him and left out on his tiny kitchen table (scrambled eggs, a few toaster-oven waffles, a single piece of turkey bacon, orange slices) has gone ice-cold and soggy at this point. (Not that Hermann could eat it anyway.) Still, he cares about Newt’s feelings, so he scrapes half of the plate off into the very bottom of Newt’s rubbish bin and prods the rest around his plate a bit to make it look like he ate some.

Then he goes off in search of the entrance to the garage, and more specifically, Newt.

It doesn’t take him very long. Newt must’ve woken up far earlier than Hermann anticipated, because he’s not only managed to make Hermann breakfast, but he’s gone out, towed Hermann's car to the garage, and started work on it already. He’s popped the hood and is bent over and poking around in the undercarriage, giving Hermann quite an excellent view of his—well. “Good morning,” Hermann calls over to him, feeling strangely flustered.

Newt straightens up and turns around. He grins when he sees Hermann. “Good morning, dude,” he says, wiping one grease-smeared hand off on his jeans, then the other. “I think I’ll be done soon. I actually have all the parts your engine needs already.”

Newt’s in a filthy white tank top that shows off his arms magnificently, jeans as tight as they’d been last night, and Hermann entertains, briefly, the fantasy of Newt hoisting him up onto the hood of his own car and screwing him senseless (or, perhaps, the scenario in reverse) before taking a seat on a nearby wooden bench. “Take your time,” he says, breezily. “I’m in no rush.”

The day is hot, and even if Hermann hardly feels it, he can see how badly it affects Newt. Newt’s set up a few fans around the garage (no air conditioning here, he explains, no real use, seeing as he keeps huge metal door open most of the time), and a fine layer of sweat marks his arms and forehead. He remains undeterred in his cheeriness, however; he whistles along to a small transistor radio the whole time he tinkers with Hermann’s engine, occasionally asking Hermann the odd question about his car (year, model, how the hell Hermann’s managed to keep it alive all these years) or about Hermann himself (how he slept, if he got Newt’s note, if he ate something). Hermann does feel bad lying about breakfast, just a little, but he does not lie when he informs Newt it’s the best sleep he’s had in a very, very,  _very_ long time.

“Are you headed into town when I’m done?” Newt asks close to midday during a small break from his work. He leans against the wall next to Hermann and takes a long drink from a reusable water bottle. He’s plastered stickers to the sides of it.

“I suppose,” Hermann says, watching the lines of Newt’s soft throat work as he swallows, then admits, “truthfully, I’ve got no real plan.”

“Hm,” Newt says. He does not speak for a few seconds. When he does, he’s hesitant. “‘Cause I was thinking. If you wanted—we could, uh, go to dinner or something. I could take you to dinner, I mean. And maybe show you around a little. You’re moving here, right?”

Hermann nods, wordless.

Newt shrugs. “Well, yeah. I’ve lived here for a little while. Like I said.”

He fidgets, and rubs the back of his neck with one grease-smeared hand.

It’s a terrible idea, and Hermann knows it, and yet he wants very badly to accept. Newt will ask Hermann questions about his life, well-meaning questions, questions Hermann won’t be able to answer convincingly. Newt will wonder why he doesn’t eat anything, or how he wears three layers without breaking a sweat, where he’s  _from_ , even, why he's driven all the way out here without the scarcest hint of a plan for himself. But the prospect of a repeat of last night—where Newt, beautiful Newt, will hold Hermann in his warm arms and kiss him with his warm lips and laugh and smile and lull him to sleep with his heartbeat and Hermann, for a brief fragment of time, will feel almost human again—is too hard to pass up.

“That’s very kind of you to offer,” he says. “I’d like that very much.”

Newt’s answering smile is as dazzling as it is dangerous. Newt Geiszler, Hermann thinks, has the potential to spell a lot of trouble for him.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at hermannsthumb, twitter at hermanngaylieb, and nsfw (18+ only) twitter at hermanngayszler!


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